


Into the Woods

by Visinata



Series: Carry On Countdown 2019 [5]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Agatha is feeling lonely, Consent, F/F, consent is very important to dryads, must have something to do with the way people are always messing with their trees without asking, wlw but without cringey body part words
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:49:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21930973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Visinata/pseuds/Visinata
Summary: Written for Carry On Countdown 2019 Day 29: FirstsIt's springtime and Agatha is feeling restless and lonely. Half a bottle of dandelion wine and a walk in the woods later and suddenly she's got company.
Relationships: Agatha Wellbelove/Dryad
Series: Carry On Countdown 2019 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1563961
Comments: 17
Kudos: 28
Collections: Agatha Wellbelove fics, Carry On Countdown 2019





	Into the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> The current rating is M. I'll up it to E when I post the second chapter.

AGATHA

I’ve taken a bottle of dandelion wine I nicked from the kitchens out into the Woods. I just want to be alone, and no one will think to look for me here. It’s late spring and I’m feeling, I don’t know… restless. Spring is always like this. And this year it’s worse than ever.

All the seventh years besides me have been pairing up like crazy and sneaking off into abandoned classrooms and dark corners to do who knows what. Actually, I have a pretty good idea what they’re sneaking off to do, and I’ve caught myself thinking that if I were still with Simon, maybe we’d be hiding away somewhere to do the same. And a part of me wants to—the restless part—but when I try imagining what it would be like, going that far with Simon, kissing— _really_ kissing, not what we usually do—letting him put his hand up my shirt, or take it off entirely. Maybe going farther, _losing my virginity_ to Simon, helping him lose his. It feels all wrong.

My body wants it, but my brain feels like sicking up at the thought. I’m not interested in Simon that way and even though he is very attractive, I’m not attracted _to_ him. Just thinking about being that physical with him makes me feel like I’d be lying to him, making him promises with my body that my brain doesn’t intend to keep. I don’t think Simon knows the difference between being in love and feeling hungry for physical contact. I do, and if I let us get that close, I’d be _taking advantage_ of him. When this feeling hits—restless body, guilty brain—I usually lock myself in my room with my pixie (the battery powered kind, not Penelope’s roommate) and thank Seuss I don’t have a roommate.

But today I’m _too_ restless. I needed to get outside, away from The Cloisters and all of the hormones raging inside its walls. I walk until I’m deep in the woods, but not so deep the sunlight’s gone entirely. When I stop, it’s dusky, but rays of golden light filter through the pale green spring leaves.

I sink down in a ray of sunshine at the base of an old elm and hold the bottle of dandelion wine up to the light. It’s about a third gone already. I was drinking it while I walked. I tip it back for another big gulp. I’m not drunk, I don’t think. I haven’t been drunk since that time fifth year when Simon used **hair of the dog** on me. I’m just pleasantly buzzed. Everything looks fresh and inviting. I feel warm and expansive and I wonder if I should go back for my vibrator or if using an electrical device in the Wood would summon all the forest folk to scold me.

It probably would. Plus, part of my problem is that I’m feeling a touch lonely, I think. And that would just make me feel worse. I close my eyes and focus on soaking up the sun’s warmth. When I open them again someone’s standing in front of me. Actually, she’s hovering.

I feel like I should be more alarmed than I am. It’s probably the wine stopping me from jumping up and preparing for battle. Or maybe the fact Simon and Penelope aren’t here and I don’t _have_ to have a battle if I don’t want to.

I’m pretty sure the figure silhouetted in the sunlight filtering through the leavesis a dryad. They’ve always seemed little intimidating to me, all nature spirits do, but this one is also… not pretty, exactly, but nice to look at.

I really like her style. I don’t know if I could get away with the anime getup she has on, but I’m a bit jealous that _she’s_ pulling it off so well. Pseudo-victorian dress, really flash heeled ankle boots, and one of those frilly parasols, even though she clearly doesn’t need it to keep the sun off, as deep in the woods as we are.

She hovers over to me. I don’t think she’s put a foot on the ground this whole time. I’m _very_ jealous of her boots. They’re all different shades of green which you’d think would look atrocious, but it works stunningly with her outfit.

“Can you actually stand?” I ask her. “Like, on the ground?”

She cocks her head. Then she slowly sinks down, until she’s resting on the moss two feet away from me. I’m not sure if she’s actually standing, or just hovering exactly at the surface of the earth.

I reach out a hand towards one of her boots. I can’t help myself. They’re divine, and I want to feel what they’re made of. She moves backwards abruptly.

“Don’t touch without asking,” she says. Her voice is dry and husky. A bit like bark rubbing on bark, but it’s calming, rather than grating. I like it.

I immediately pull back my hand, embarrassed. My mother would be appalled. It must have been the wine, making me reach out so rudely. I hear Penelope’s voice in my head, _“It’s not the alcohol_ making _you do anything, Agatha. It’s just that your inhibitions are lowered and you’re making different choices from usual. You’re still responsible for your actions. They’re still_ your _actions.”_

I let my head thump back against the tree. It was so nice _not_ thinking about Penelope for a little while.

The dryad steps closer to me again.

“Ask.” she says.

“What do you mean?” I say. “What should I ask?” Are dryads like oracles? Can she answer any of my burning questions?

“Ask, if you want to touch,” she replies, extending one of her feet towards me.

“May I touch your boot?” I say. And instantly feel like an idiot. What a stupid thing to ask. She nods her head, and her hair rustles. It looks like it’s made of fine strands of vine and twigs. It’s definitely not normal hair.

I reach my hand out towards her boot. I’m curious what material it’s made of. It looks like leather and velvet, but I have a feeling it’s something unnecessarily woodsy, probably held together with magic.

I miss though, because she sidesteps my hand and sits down next to me, leaning on the tree.

I’ve never been this close to a magickal creature before, a human-like one, I mean. (Unless you count Baz, if he really is a vampire, like Simon says he is.)

Up close the dryad smells nice, like the woods, but only the pleasant bits. The fresh sharp scent of new growth and the sweet perfume of the flowers tucked into her twiggy hair. Or maybe they’re _part_ of her hair. I can’t tell.

Then she surprises me by taking her boot off and handing it to me. I was right. The leathery material is tree bark, molded and finished in a way I didn’t know was possible. I’m not sure about the velvety bits, they feel soft and fuzzy, like the outside of a magnolia bud.

Then she shifts and places her bare foot in my lap. She isn’t wearing any sort of socks or stockings. Her skin’s got a greyish-brown cast to it and looks like smooth bark. She leans in closer to me and reaches a hand out towards my hair.

“May I touch?” She asks, tipping her head to one side again.

“Yes,” I say. She’s intoxicating this close, or maybe the way my head’s swimming is an effect of the dandelion wine.

She runs her fingers through my hair. Gently at first, just moving the strands, like her hand is the wind. Then she digs deeper and I feel her fingertips running along my scalp, tracing lines and circles.

“Sister Golden Hair,” she murmurs.

It feels lovely. Simon has never touched me like this. He’s never run his hands through my hair as though it’s something amazing. (It is, I take good care of it.) He’s never done anything that makes me feel tingly all over. That’s how I’m feeling right now—tingly right down my spine and up my legs.

I lean towards the dryad, hoping she’ll keep doing it.

I set the boot down beside me and reach my hand up to lay it on her foot in my lap. Her skin is cool to the touch—the temperature of shaded leaves on a hot day—and softer than I expected. It doesn’t feel quite like human skin, but it’s not rough like bark. That’s how I thought it might feel, rough, but there’s only a mild scratch to it, like a very fine emory board.

I run my fingertips along the top of her foot and the texture of her skin feels good on mine, so I do it again. She wiggles her toes, and the hand that’s in my hair slides down the back of my neck, fingers twirling around the fine hairs at the base of my scalp.

She wiggles her toes again and I realize that my hand has stopped moving on her foot, I’ve been so entirely focused on the way her fingers feel on my skin. When I look up, her face is closer to mine and the heady scent of blooming flowers is stronger.

I start to move my hand along her foot again, rubbing the top and then running my fingers along the bottom from toe to heel. She sighs—because she likes it, I think—and it sounds like a gentle breeze.

I want to hear her make that sound again so I start in giving her a proper foot massage. My Normal friends and I used to do that for each other sometimes after ballet class. She sighs again, louder, and arches her back. Her dress really is lovely, especially where it dips low over her chest. It strains over her stomach as she arches. I don’t wear clothing cut like that—tight and low cut; my mother considers it low class. Come to think of it, my mother would consider consorting with a dryad low class as well. Is that what I’m doing? _Consorting_? What does that even mean? If that _is_ what I’m doing, it doesn’t seem so bad.

When the dryad straightens up again she bends towards me. Both of her hands are on me now, fingers running up and down my neck, my ears, my cheeks. She pauses with one hand on my jaw and the other rubbing just behind my ear.

“May I taste you?” she asks.

I nod. I’m barely breathing. I think she’s going to kiss me. I think I _want_ her to kiss me. So far this is loads better than being frustrated and alone. She leans in closer and her floral scent blooms. Then her cool tongue is on my earlobe and I jump a bit. I wasn’t expecting that. Simon’s never done that. I can feel her licking up and down the outer edge of my ear. It’s different, but I think I like it. Then her lips close around my earlobe and the next thing I know she’s sucking on it, and I can feel it all the way through me—pleasure shoots straight down my core and pools between my legs and I don’t think I’ve every felt anything quite like this before.

She pulls away too soon and I realize my hands are no longer on her foot, which is now folded beneath her, but grasping her around the waist.

“Is this okay?” I ask. “Can I touch you here?”

She nods, and vines grow, coiling down her arms and pushing into my hair and down the back of my cardigan.

“Touch me anywhere,” she says. “General permission granted.”

I rub my thumbs up and down the side panels of her dress. The fabric—or whatever it is—feels rough, not soft like the boot was. She closes her eyes and smiles, like a cat. I creep one of my hands around so I’m running it up and down her stomach, careful to stop well before my hand goes too high. I’m not sure if her breasts qualify as general permission territory or if I’ll need special permission if I want to go there. _Do_ I want to go there? I’m not sure. I don’t think I’d mind if she decided to touch _me_ there though, which is a new thought.

Simon’s done it. He pushed his sword-rough hands up under my sky blue cashmere top one year at Christmas while my mother gossiped in the next room and Dr. Who played on the telly. It was awkward and I felt guilty, then sad, for not feeling anything. I’m feeling something now though, just thinking about the possibility. The way the dryad touches me is so different. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know if it’s because she’s a nature spirit or because she’s a girl, or just that Simon’s lousy at it. But this is definitely better than anything I did with him.

She takes my other earlobe into her mouth and sucks. How can something so small feel so good? I lean back and let myself slide down the tree trunk until I’m more or less lying on the forest floor. She follows me down, sucking on my ear, licking down my neck and biting gently on my collar bone.

I’m hoping she’ll go lower.

I’m wearing a sundress (lemon yellow), with a sweetheart neckline and a pale lavender cardigan over it. The cardi’s open in front, I just wore it to keep my arms warm. But now I’m brainstorming ways to get it off without interfering with what the dryad is doing.

She’s just begun licking the exposed skin above the neckline of my dress. This is a dress my mother approved—not cut too low. But it’s low enough that the dryad’s tongue is actually _on_ my left breast, running back and forth and making it impossible for me to think. I can feel my nipple harden beneath the fabric and I draw in a sharp breath. Suddenly I want more than just the cardigan off.

I wriggle my shoulder while she mouths along the top of my breast, until my bare skin is poking out of the cardigan and my dress strap has fallen loose down my shoulder. I want her to notice. I want her to do something about it; palm my breast in her hand? Peel my dress farther down with her mouth? I don’t know what, but _something_. 

When her tongue reaches the lowest point of my neckline, right in the center, she pauses and looks up with a question in her eyes. Then she brings a finger up and traces minute circles onto my skin right where her tongue just was.

“It would bring me pleasure to delve further.” I can feel my eyes widen. “What do you say, mage?”

I don’t know what she means by delve, and I’m confused by what she said about bringing _her_ pleasure. _I'm_ the one getting pleasure here. I don’t know what this could be doing for _her_. Maybe she means later. Maybe I’m supposed to be remembering all of this, so I can do it to her. It’s hard to focus on any of these thoughts though because all I want right now is for her to keep going, hopefully lower, under my dress. Delve. Yes. I think I want that. Plus, I don’t know if I'm ever going have another opportunity to feel everything she’s making me feel. To have someone as beautiful and confident, and _knowledgeable_ touching my body.

I look her in the eyes, they’re brilliant green, like the moss under my back, and say “General permission granted.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this far! 
> 
> It makes me sad that wlw fics have such low readership, but I'm guilty of starting them and not finishing them myself. When I tried to figure out why, I realized it had a lot to do with the fact that I find most, if not all, of the words typically used to describe afab anatomy super duper uncomfortable and cringetastic. So this fic is a challenge to myself to see if I can write a sexy wlw fic that does not use words that make me want to barf. Please let me know in the comments if you think I've pulled it off. (I know we're not quite there yet in Chapter 1, Chapter 2 is where it's at.)


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